


marseillaise

by laureenj90



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bad French, Barricade Day 2018, E/R - Freeform, Grantaire is a Mess, I Tried, I'm Bad At Tagging, La Marseillaise, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, On The Barricade, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 10:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15434934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laureenj90/pseuds/laureenj90
Summary: Grantaire arrives one second too late.





	marseillaise

Grantaire’s ears were ringing from the shots, his feet numbly cemented to the top of the stairs, body frozen in an unfinished sprint. His eyes burned at the sight before him, smoke clearing to reveal another barricade of blue dropping their muskets to their sides. In a brief moment of clarity, Grantaire sunk behind an overturned table. He was too late. The soldiers bounded down the stairs in a loud parade, paying no attention to him. Silence forced him to his feet. Shards of broken hopes mingled with those of broken glass under his shaky footsteps as he crossed the room. His thoughts melted into bullets and pierced his soul, his heart, his being. He collapsed at the sight of familiar red. A bullet in his stomach, a bullet in his chest. Grantaire did the only thing he knew to. His shoulders shook as he sobbed and cursed and absorbed every aspect of the man laying beside him in a desperate attempt of remembering something other than bullets and pain and lost causes. If there was a chance, the smallest hope that Enjolras could hear him, he clung to it as words drifted out of his mouth on shallow, frantic breaths:

“Vive la République, j’en suis, j’en suis.”

His hands hovered above Enjolras, treating him like any other piece of fine art. 

“Grantaire.”

It was soft and distant, but there. Grantaire’s eyes met Enjolras’. The same infatuating blue in which Grantaire often lost himself, but with another layer that he had never seen in Enjolras, but knew all too well himself. Fear. Their expressions matched. The only thought that Grantaire could formulate was _des larmes sont magnifiques sur le marbre._ A sob was stuck in his throat, he couldn’t breathe, his hands floated out of his orbit. Enjolras reached up weakly and pulled them down to his bloody shirt, snapping Grantaire out of his disassociation. He was suddenly so aware of the warmth of Enjolras’s hands on his, the muted rise and fall of his chest, the pain in his face.

“Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras,” he repeated. It was the only word he knew. 

“R,” said Enjolras, gripping Grantaire’s hands with new urgency. R. R. R. Grantaire couldn’t see him anymore. The end of the world isn’t visually appealing. “Grantaire, je vais bien. Regarde-moi, regarde-” he couldn’t finish. His grip on Grantaire’s hands was as strong as ever as his face contorted and his eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down his cheeks, which had lost their passionate pink blush. Grantaire wanted nothing more than to scoop him into his lap and bleed his life into him. Finish them both in one blow. Enjolras was breathing faster now, and Grantaire’s movements matched as he pried his hands from Enjolras’s. He went to wrap his arms around him, but paused. One does not just touch the sun.

“Permets-tu?” he whispered.

Enjolras smiled, and that was all Grantaire had ever needed. He cradled Enjolras with the gentlest fervency, blonde curls tucked under his chin and blood staining the front of his shirt where their chests were pressed together. Grantaire leaned against the wall next to a shattered window. Light shone onto Enjolras’s legs and the flag trailing from his around his waist. Grantaire was silent. Enjolras had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow. _Le plus beau_ , thought Grantaire. _L’art_. Enjolras shuddered. 

“Patria,” he breathed. Grantaire was determined to try. He had to try. For Enjolras.

“Elle est fière de toi, Enjolras,” said Grantaire quietly. He was doing this wrong, he couldn’t think of anything to say. All his thoughts were useless. The leader, his leader, was fading in his arms. Somewhere, a star was collapsing. It wasn’t June. They were suspended in a void; there was no time, no oxygen, no feeling except for Enjolras’s shoulders racking as he tried to suppress his sobs, the warmth of the sun on the gray floor of the café, the smell of blood and smoke heavy in the air. The blue of the cockade on Enjolras’s jacket stood out against the red and caught Grantaire’s eye. Le Tricolore had never been so beautiful. Grantaire knew that the inevitable would happen soon, and as he gazed helplessly at Enjolras, his heart shattered. He brought one hand to Enjolras’s pallid cheek, and his mind wandered to what he knew Enjolras loved more than anything. Tears dripped onto Enjolras’s jacket as he sang softly, sweetly, calmly:

“ _Allons les enfants de la Patrie-_ ”

Enjolras’s eyes fluttered open, and something was ignited within Grantaire, a valiant warmth he could not place. 

“ _Le jour de gloire_ ,” Enjolras whispered. “Continue.” Grantaire did so, voice weighted with grief.

“ _Est arrivé. Contre nous de la tyrannie, l’étendard sanglant est levé._ ”

Enjolras had closed his eyes again, his breathing slower. Grantaire held him close. He continued, “ _Entendez-vous dans les campagnes mugir ces féroces soldats? Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras, égorger vos fils, vos compagnes._ ”

The song had never rang more true. Grantaire looked down at Enjolras, blurred through tears but still radiant. He watched his chest rise and fall and rise and fall and rise and fall and

stop. Grantaire held him still. He stared at Enjolras with a reverence as if he was before a god, perhaps greater. There was yelling in the streets below as the soldiers continued their massacre. Grantaire was silent for a moment, searching for a cohesive thought to no avail. Enjolras was heavy against his chest. There was still a radiance about him, even in death. Grantaire could see the towering hopes that he had built in his mind, each brick laid with the utmost thought and glued together with visions of progress. He pictured the view from the top, and understood. The future would be brighter because of people like Enjolras. He looked down at the body in his arms with newfound purpose, and from the rubble of his soul, he pulled a single lyric: 

“ _Aux armes, citoyens._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> French Translations:
> 
> "Long live the Republic, I am one of them, I am one of them" (i pulled it straight from the french brick so)
> 
> "tears look gorgeous on marble"
> 
> "I'm okay, look at me, look-"
> 
> "Do you permit it?"
> 
> "The most beautiful," "art"
> 
> "She is proud of you, Enjolras"
> 
> and then the rest is just La Marseillaise! feel free to leave a comment and thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
